Pipes and Canes and Waistcoats
by Miyazaki A2
Summary: As is my recent MO, this is a collection of oneshots, drabbles, and ficlets about random points in the shared lives of Holmes and Watson. I can't promise that slash won't make it into the stories. Possible bookverse and movieverse settings. Enjoy!
1. Beginning With the End

It is important to note, if only for the sake of my own peace of mind, that I doubt if anyone should ever read this account, or any that shall follow in this new diary of mine. If anyone does ever come upon this and read it, I imagine that I shall most likely be dead. It is my intent to use this diary to divest myself of all the secrets that I have kept hidden from the public all these years, and to serve this purpose, this diary must be kept out of any and all hands but my own.

This diary was a gift from my dearest friend Sherlock Holmes on my most recent birthday, on account of the fact that, according to my friend, I become idle and morose when I do not write. He says that my idleness is contagious, and it must be remedied as we are in such close quarters of late.

It is on this note that I should like to expound. In my published works, it has been said that Holmes left me alone to retire in Sussex. This is in part a falsehood. It is true that Holmes _did _retire and move down to Sussex, but he did not abandon me in London. I accompanied him, and now we share our home in rest just as we shared our home in work. I can see him through the window at this very moment, tending to his bees.

This continued cohabitation, and the hiding thereof, were both quite necessary. Through our long years of companionship, I have _tried _to live without Sherlock Holmes. I tried when I married my dear Mary, and I was forced to try after the deeply unfortunate events that transpired at Reichenbach Falls. It is not a thing I can do with ease, living without Holmes. When I was married, I still found myself being pulled away from my poor wife to join Holmes on his adventures, and during the years in which I thought Holmes to be dead, I was a hollow, lifeless man. After much introspect, I have realized that Holmes is, and has been for a very long time, the most important thing in my life. When he told me of his intentions to retire, there was never a moment in which I did not intend to join him.

But the public is not overly sympathetic when it comes to matters such as these. Due to unfair laws and outlooks, people see two men who are closer than the average man and wife, and they begin to make suppositions. I do not intend to postulate that such suppositions are always incorrect; they are merely always unfortunate. And it is for that reason that, as far as the public is concerned, I remain living alone as a steady old widower in London.

It is worth the maddening secrecy, though. Holmes and I are aging. It is in the dusk of our lives that men need companionship most of all, and I personally cannot imagine trudging along the streets alone in the streets of London without my Holmes beside me. My bad leg has only worsened in my later years, and if it were not for my friend's company and natural vigor, I cannot envision myself getting out of bed most mornings.

I imagine it is much the same for Holmes. His body is still long and thin and quivering, but he seems to move more slowly of late with perhaps a small stoop to his shoulders. His long, nervous hands shake more than they did in the past as he reaches out for a book or a cup of tea, and his sleek black hair is not shot with grey at the temples. His grey eyes still twinkle as they always have, though, and I know that he is the same person I have shared the majority of my life with. Retirement has not taken his life-force or his great mind. I had worried early on that the inactivity of retirement would send him into a deep, drowning languor; but on the contrary, he seems to appreciate the ability to finally _rest._ Besides, he keeps active enough with his bees and with me. This comforts me. I also worried that without the excitement of his cases, he would grow tired of me as well. The fact that he has not is one of the greatest sources of joy in my life.

I have had much time for musing nowadays, as Holmes and I often sit silently in our cozy little sitting room. Lately I have been thinking of Mary again. I did love the woman, I honestly and truly did. She was kind and sweet and strong, all the desirable qualities in a woman. But—and mind that I do feel a little shame in admitting this—I regret choosing her over Holmes so many years ago. Six years in all I have lost from my life with Holmes—three when I was married and three when I was mourning. And, looking back, I would freely give up the adventure of the Sign of the Four and my subsequent meeting of my poor Mary if it would give me those years back.

I loved Mary, and I still find myself mourning her and missing her despite the many long years past. But I no longer wish that she was mine, no longer imagine how life would have been if she had been allowed to grow old with me. I am not glad she is dead by any means, and I would have saved her if I'd had the ability—I am simply glad that my life with Holmes has been allowed to continue, and that we shall not be separated again as we both shall live.

If only I had understood what he meant to me back then as well as I do now. I could have saved the two of us so much pain. I could have saved Mary, too. I believe she always knew that she was sharing my love with Sherlock Holmes. On her deathbed, she proved my suspicion correct, but she told me that she held nothing against me and only wished for my happiness. I only wish that she could see my happiness now and be comforted.

I _am _very happy now. I have been allowed to live and laugh and love, and now I am being allowed to rest with my dearest and most precious friend. I am very lucky.

But, ah! My Holmes is coming inside now. I must take leave of you now, diary. Until I take up the pen again—

_JHW_

_

* * *

_

**(A/N)**

_**I've found that oneshots are my forte. I'm beginning with the boys' shared retirement because I often find that I can't always appreciate the often-angsty middle of a story unless I know that it all ends well. Also, even though I haven't finished reading all of The Stories yet, I do know how Holmes and Watson end up in different places at the ends of their lives, and I don't like that. There are characters that are supposed to always be together, so I tweek facts to suit my needs.**_

_**Hope this read didn't make you want to gouge your eyes out with spoons! I don't know when the next time I'll update will be--it's harder to come up with ideas for 'Sherlock Holmes' than it is for 'Good Omens'. **_

_**Much love,  
Miyazaki A2**_


	2. Recollection

Last night I awoke to the sound of a strangled cry of my name coming from the bedroom across the narrow hall from my own. Before I was even fully awake I was up and out of my bed, fearing the worst for my friend Sherlock Holmes. In my half-asleep state, I imagined that some old enemy had found our Sussex home and was seeking retribution at long last. I even made sure to collect my revolver from my bureau on my way out my bedroom door.

But all seemed well once I barged into my old companion's chambers. That is, well enough. It appeared that Holmes was in no immediate danger, at the very least. However, he was sitting upright in his bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, shuddering visibly. I could not see the cause of his severe agitation, but I still hastened to comfort him. In only three long strides I was by his bedside; in another heartbeat I was seated in front of him on his bed, touching his thin, trembling arm.

"Holmes? Holmes, I'm here. Whatever is the matter, old fellow?"

He made small noise and looked up at me, his aged face looking weary and frightened, an expression I have not seen on his face enough times to need to count with both hands. "My dear Watson," said he, slowly and with deliberation, "I cannot—perhaps it is because I am so tired, but—Watson, your recollection has always been so clear and precise. Tell me, my dearest friend—how did we meet? I cannot seem to recall, and it's—" He cut off suddenly, shuddering again, and for a moment I thought I saw the sheen of tears upon his cheeks.

My heart sank at the thought that he had forgotten the single most important meeting of my life, but I steeled myself to keep from allowing him to see my disappointment. In a quiet voice, I repeated, "You cannot recall?"

Suddenly he gripped my arms with a tightness that should have surprised me, had I not already been aware of his singular strength in the fingers. "Please, Watson," said he. "Please."

As the case has been my entire life, I could deny him nothing. "Stamford introduced us. 1881, I believe it was. We were each in need of lodgings; you were interested in 221B Baker Street, and I was interested in anything I could afford. Stamford suggested we split the rent. He took me to your lab at St. Bart's—after much warning of your eccentric tendencies, mind you. There, we found you after some experiment had gone rather well—"

"I had just found a reagent which was precipitated by hemoglobin, and by nothing else," Holmes murmured, looking down at his hands on my arms with blank eyes. The trembling stopped presently and he met my concerned gaze with calm, lucid eyes. "Of course. That's what I thought it was; I had not forgotten." He smiled weakly. "Perhaps it was just that blasted dream of mine that had me confused."

I touched his graying hair gently. "You had a nightmare that you could not remember our first meeting?" said I with a small, consoling smile.

He did not appear to be very much consoled. He was quiet for a few moments too long, and when he did speak, his voice was desolate. "No, Watson. I dreamt that we had never had a first meeting at all."

I opened my mouth to reply, but no sound escaped my throat. I was frozen with horror at the idea. Holmes read my thoughts as easily as ever, and his hands on my arms began moving slowly up and down, caressing. "You understand my distress, then," he said quietly. "I would be lost without my Watson."

I smiled. I ceased to be his Boswell several years ago, this is true, and it made my heart swell to hear his old endearment with my proper name.

"And I you, my dear Holmes. But ah, I am keeping you from the sleep you so dearly need. I'll go now, shall I? You're well now?" I made to stand up, but his hands became vices around my wrists. I stopped moving, and looked at him inquisitively. He said nothing, but I recognized the look in his eye. He didn't want to be alone.

Silently, I obliged him. There is no one else in this little cottage to see what we do anymore, so I did not hesitate in pulling back the bed-sheets and lying down beside him. He made a pleased little noise and curled up close to me, his long, wrinkled hand reaching out for mine. I thought of saying something to him, but in only a few moments I heard his peculiar soft whistle of a snore and knew he was fast asleep already.

I was glad for it, and I am pleased to tell that he did not stir again all night and that in the few days since, he has not had any signs of further loss of recollection. I am glad for this as well, more glad than I can ever say. I do not know what I shall do, should my companion's great mind ever suffer from our old age. I have taken it on as my own personal responsibility to ensure that his mind is kept well-occupied now—after all, aged men can be just as quick of mind as youngsters as long as they do not allow their minds to become idle, Holmes tells me.

Although, I must say, it is a little less than relaxing to find little mysteries for him to solve around town. I do hope he appreciates my efforts.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_More Aging!Angst because it's fun and depressing and all that. Yum. This whole fanfiction won't be aging!angst, mind you. Just getting it out of the way early. ;)_**

**_Sure hope no one hated this with the entire fire of their soul._**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	3. Marriage and Loneliness

During the sharp, harsh light of day, Sherlock Holmes can be logical about Watson's marriage. He can tell himself that Watson is a man very much in love and that he is happier now than ever. He tells himself that Watson's marriage had nothing to do with him and that he had no right to feel as if it was by some fault of his own that he'd been abandoned at 221B Baker Street. Watson did not choose Mary _over Holmes_; he simply chose Mary. Holmes had never been a part of the equation.

Holmes can tell himself this and even accept it during the daytime…and yet…at night, when he is alone and has no case to occupy his buzzing mind, he wonders if he did something wrong at some point, something to warrant this desertion.

It is not as if he never sees Watson anymore. It is not even that they do not work together anymore; though it sometimes feels selfish, Holmes has still been able to drag Watson away from his wife to join in on his cases. Their continued companionship in the workplace, along with the odd visit, is almost enough to sustain Holmes, but not quite. Holmes had gotten too used to his home-life with Watson, and now it proves difficult for him to remove himself from seven years' worth of habits. He still finds himself calling out for his friend whenever a particularly interesting article appears in the agony column, or when an experiment goes exactly the way he wanted. And when there is no answer, it is all Holmes can do to keep from jumping into a hansom and driving across town to tell Watson anyway.

Holmes has never felt lonely in his entire life before now. He finds that he does not enjoy the feeling at all. If ever a feeling has proven that he is right in shying away from emotion, it is loneliness. Such a cruel, inescapable emotion.

But then, it is not, after all, _completely _inescapable. As always, he _does _still have the cocaine bottle.

* * *

**_(A/N)_**

**_Haha, Watson!Marriage angst. Love it. Hope you do too._**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	4. SIGN Alternate Ending

**An Alternate Ending to **_**The Sign of Four  
**_**Beginning near the End of Chapter 11—**_**The Great Agra Treasure**_

* * *

Miss Morstan allowed me a small berth as I picked up Mrs. Forrester's poker, and from that distance she watched my movements intently with her sweet eyes. I, however, did my best not to think of her, but to instead focus on my work and the great box that contained her treasure.

There was in front a thick broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment, for as soon as the lid was opened, pearls and gems began to spill out onto the table, so filled to the brim was the massive box.

Miss Morstan gave a queer little gasp and her hand flew to cover her mouth to hide her obvious shock and pleasure. I hardly noticed any more of her reaction, though. I was much too preoccupied with the ache in my own heart. I had prepared myself for this outcome, of course, but somewhere deep inside my soul there was a selfish, disloyal little creature that thought that it would have been just lovely if the box had been empty.

I attempted to drive the disappointment from my features, but apparently I did not succeed, for when Miss Morstan turned her eyes to me, the small smile that had formed on her lips died away. A small knit appeared between her brows in its stead, and she reached out to place a gloved hand gently upon my arm.

"Dr. Watson?" said she, sounding quite concerned. I said nothing, but removed myself from her touch and began to scoop the spilled pearls and gems back into the great box. "John?" she ventured again.

I flinched at the use of my Christian name and finally met her sweet gaze. I saw tears in her eyes as she seemed to realize that now that she was a rich woman I could no longer in good conscience pursue her. I wished I had the power to bring her smile back into existence, but there was nothing I could do.

Suddenly, she seemed to come to a decision. "I shan't keep it," she announced in a calm, even tone. "I shall give Mr. Sholto my half, or else give it to the less fortunate, or—"

I halted her words by catching one of her hands in both of my own. While her words soothed the ache in my heart, I knew that they were wrong. She would be so much bettered with this money, both in station and in quality of life. I could not dream of taking this opportunity away from her, and I told her just that. For another few minutes or so she did not acquiesce to my offer, but eventually I narrowly managed to convince her that the money would do her more good that I would. Besides, I told her, she could soon have any man she liked. She would soon be so happy. Even if _I _was not, I didn't say.

A small time later and with a heavy heart, I left her, saying goodbye for the last time as I carried her treasure back to the cab and the patient inspector. I could not bring myself to look back at her home as we drove away; that would have been much too painful. The inspector seemed to sense my ill mood and did not speak any further than to make a few innocuous comments about our clients' good fortune. I cannot remember exactly what words passed between us; I was very severely distracted.

I was able to pull myself together long enough to pay attention when we returned to Sherlock Holmes and Jonathon Small. Upon seeing my dark countenance, my friend moved to stand beside me with this hand placed lightly upon my wrist as we listened to Small's singular narration. Indeed, his story was quite engaging, and I imagine that I should have forgotten about my troubles entirely were it not for the fact that it was _this_ man's fortune that now kept Mary out of my reach forevermore.

Eventually Jonathon Small moved on to describe how it had never been his intention to allow the Agra treasure to fall into the hands of a Morstan or a Sholto. He told of how he had made the decision to throw the whole of it overboard just a moment too late, and how he became too engaged in our little battle on the water to get the chance. Again, for a shameful moment, I selfishly wished that he _had _had time to throw the treasure into the Thames. But my love for Mary and my desire for her happiness did not allow the wish to become too fervent. As long as Miss Morstan had a real chance at joy, my own did not matter in the least.

Still, I sulked for several weeks following the conclusion of the case of the Sign of the Four. My friend Holmes was remarkably gentle with me as I nursed my wounded heart. He did not take any large, overly-engaging cases in the entire time, instead staying in for most of the time and playing my favorite pieces on his violin, or else reading excerpts of poetry for me or engaging me in casual, easy conversation. And he did not take a single dosage of cocaine the entire time, which was a substantial comfort to me in and of itself. I should have felt a horrid friend indeed if my own selfish heartache had sent Holmes into a period of self-destruction due to inactivity.

Eventually, when my pain began to ease and my mood began to improve, Holmes ventured to speak to me about Miss Morstan, apparently feeling that the two of us needed to shake off the ordeal entirely.

"She is a remarkable woman, I'll admit," he told me cautiously one afternoon over tea.

"Quite," I answered tersely.

He waited a moment and then said quite hesitantly, "But—and I do apologize for this statement in advance—I cannot tell you that I am in any way displeased by the overall outcome of this last case of ours."

I took a harsh intake of breath and looked up at him sharply, unable to find words that suitably spoke my hurt.

He met my gaze evenly, honestly, and of course was instantly able to read my thoughts from my face. "I had feared that you were going to marry Miss Morstan," he confided quietly, eyeing my warily.

"Feared?" I repeated, confused by his choice of words.

He shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal fashion, and I could almost literally see the veil of impassiveness draw itself back over his bright grey eyes. He turned his face away from me slightly, not out of dishonesty but out of what more closely resembled embarrassment. His high cheekbones were lightly colored. "You know, Watson," said he, "I inexplicably find myself able to think more clearly whilst in your presence. It's really quite a remarkable sensation. There is a monograph to be written on the effects that a single person can have on the—on the mind of another person—"

"I believe that is the premise of any love-story, Holmes," I answered with no small amount of bitterness in my voice. I didn't want to hear descriptions of love in his clinical tone; it was too much.

Holmes faced me again with slightly widened eyes, and his expression told me that my sharp tone had wounded him more deeply than I'd intended. "I am simply attempting to offer some small sort of consolation to you, my dear Watson," he said quietly. "Consider this: You may be suffering greatly from the wound to your heart right now, but I imagine that you should have dealt me—and therefore justice in general—a great disservice had you abandoned me for a wife." He paused only a moment to pour a bit more tea into his cup, and then into mine. He remained poised over the table, stretched towards me, and he spoke in a low, strangely affectionate tone. "So, though it may be the last thing you desire to hear from me at the moment, I am very glad you've stayed here in Baker Street, Watson. I would be lost without my Boswell."

I felt my face flush with sudden pleasure, and for the first time in several weeks I smiled quite genuinely. "Thank you, Holmes," I replied as he curled back into his chair, sipping his tea. He gave me a queer little smile and another funny little shrug of his shoulders and said nothing more.

The silence that stretched between us was easy and companionable, and it gave me time to truly appreciate Sherlock Holmes's words. I remembered then how the act of writing and publishing of our first case together was meant purely to bring him pleasure, and how forlorn I had been when he'd berated my attempt at chronicling our adventure of a Study in Scarlet—the small assurance that Holmes did in fact appreciate me both as a friend and as a biographer, romantic as my writing is, was enough to brighten my mood and ease my heart substantially.

The very next day Holmes received a case with which he desired my assistance, which I gave to him readily. Life has gone on very much the same thereafter for Holmes and me. I have learned recently through letters with Miss Morstan that she has recently become engaged to a bright young businessman whom she has come to love very dearly. While I admit that when I first came to hold this knowledge, I was rightly jealous, but now I can see that this is exactly what I wanted for her when I learned that I could not have her for myself. She is happy, and therefore I am happy as well.

* * *

_**(A/N)**_

**_I realized recently that all our Marriage!Angst could have been avoided if damn Jonathon Small had been just a little slower in throwing the Agra Treasure into the Thames. During the whole of SIGN, Watson was battling with his propriety and his love for Mary, because he could not have dreamed of pursuing a woman so high above his own station had she suddenly become an heiress. I thought that it was really interesting that such a big part of SH fandom rode on such an easily-changed detail. Hmm._**

**_Or maybe that's just me._**

**_Hope I haven't bored you to tears or made you want to throw your computer at the wall!_**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	5. Mary Watson's Diary

_Excerpts from the diary of Mary Watson._  
_Beginning after John Watson returns to London from Switzerland following the events of The Final Problem._

* * *

My husband's heart has been broken.

A few weeks ago, while I was away visiting family, Mr. Sherlock Holmes took John away with him to the Continent—Switzerland, I believe it was. They were away for quite some time, and I received no word from my husband for the entirety of his absence. I was not very worried, however, because Mr. Holmes had always taken painstakingly good care of John on their adventures.

Unfortunately, it seems as though he did not tend to take nearly as good care of himself. You see, diary, he did not return with John from Switzerland. And when John did come home alone, he was a changed man from the one I married, broken and forlorn.

On the day of his return, he found me in our little sitting room without having a maid announce him. His entrance was silent and it was only because I was facing in the direction of the door that I noticed him at all. I remember unconsciously greeting him with a smile but gasping in shock when I truly _saw_ him. He was unnaturally pale, he looked thinner, and his hair and mustache looked unkempt. He looked at me with dull, listless eyes, and I remember thinking that it was as if he was not looking at me at all but instead seeing something very far away from our home. I hurried to stand before him, putting a hand on each of his upper arms.

"John?" I whispered, giving him a nervous little shake to try and persuade him to really _look _at me. A vine of dread had bloomed in my chest and was now twisting its way around my heart.

"It's all over, Mary," said John in a slow, monotonous tone. His eyes remained looking off into the distance of his mind. "Holmes is dead."

I barely had time for his words to find purchase within my mind before his arms were suddenly around my body, pulling me to his with almost bruising force, constricting me. His face buried itself in the fabric of my shoulder, and his own shoulders hunched in on themselves until John's body was practically curled around my own smaller one. And all the while he was shaking like a tree caught in a hurricane. He made strange half-sobbing, half-gasping noises but did not weep, as if he had no more tears left within himself to shed. He was squeezing me so tightly that I could barely find enough air to breathe let alone ask him to explain exactly what had happened in Switzerland, so I simply let him hold onto me until he regained composure.

But when he did finally release me, he did not allow me any time to speak. He instead departed to his private study, closing the door behind him in a forbidding manner. I believe I stood motionless for an entire five minutes before my mind and body regained the faculties of movement. As soon as I was recovered from my shock, I left our home in a hansom bound for Scotland Yard, hoping that one of John's police friends would be able to tell me what had happened in Switzerland to leave my dear husband so broken. It was Inspector Lestrade who told me of the happenings of Reichenbach Falls, as he had already had the details explained to him in his turn. He was very somber as he spoke, and all the other members of Scotland Yard crowded around us as he told the tale, each of their faces an identical mask of sorrow. Each of them in their turn had had assistance from Mr. Holmes on some case or another, and they were all sorry for the loss of such an extraordinary man.

I was sorry, too. Although Mr. Holmes had never seemed overly fond of me or my marriage to his partner, it was through him that I metmy husband at all. I must be grateful for that. I have never loved a man the way I love John, and if it were not for Mr. Holmes, this love would never have existed. I would be a terrible ingrate indeed if I did not mourn him.

But I am sorrier for his loss for John's sake than my own. I do not pretend to believe that I hold a higher regard in John's heart than Mr. Holmes did and still does even after death. I do not resent this. I could always see that Mr. Holmes resided in a part of John's heart that I could never hope to approach and I accepted that a long time ago. But now that piece of John's heart is dead, and the virus of grief is infecting all the other pieces.

John barely eats. He barely sleeps. His tobacco consumption has doubled. He works more hours than is healthy and when he is not working he is continuing his chronicles of his adventures with the late Mr. Holmes. I am worried for my husband, for both his health and his sanity.

* * *

Today John and I attended a small funeral ceremony for Mr. Holmes. It was more of a memorial than a funeral, as there was no body to bury. It was indeed very small; besides John and myself there were only a dozen or so attendees—Mr. Holmes's elder brother, his housekeeper, a few dirty looking children, Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson, and a couple of constables. The man did not have many friends.

Nearly each of these attendees, myself included, spoke at the ceremony, telling their own little stories of how Mr. Holmes had affected their lives. They were all quite kind and gracious to the eccentric man. I believe it did my husband good to see that his friend would not be forgotten by any means. He himself was the last to speak, and he gave the shortest address, easily remembered:

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as I am sure my friends would be willing to attest, was a great man. The greatest man in London, I would dare to claim. He had a strong sense of justice and a deep loyalty to go with his sometimes overwhelmingly sharp mind." Here he coughed into his black-gloved fist, but I knew it was to hide the unshed tears caught in his throat. "But more than a great man," he continued, "he was the greatest friend that I have ever had. He changed my life entirely, and I daresay that I shall never love another man as dearly as I loved my late friend. The world is a darker place now, for me and for justice, now that Sherlock Holmes is no longer in it."

And here he stepped back to my side, his hand alighting on my wrist for only a moment before hiding away inside a pocket. I remember attempting to touch his arm and say a few words of comfort to him, but he flinched away from me, so I left him be.

After the ceremony, Mr. Mycroft Holmes and old Mrs. Hudson allowed John to go to Baker Street to pick out a few of the late Sherlock's belongings that he wished to keep for remembrance's sake. I allowed John privacy while he did this, remaining complacently in the cab. He returned to me with a violin, a mousy old dressing-gown, and a single pipe. He didn't say anything to me about his choices. His face was rigid and pale the entire way home. I feared he would be ill.

At the moment John is curled on the settee here in our little sitting room, plucking plaintively on the strings of the Stradivarius, looking lost. He has the dressing-gown flung over his body like a blanket and the pipe is in his teeth, unlit. I tried an hour ago to convince him to take his dinner, but he was been unresponsive to me since the funeral. I am not sure if he even realizes that I am in the room with him. I am frightened.

* * *

It has now been over a year and a half since the untimely death of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. My husband John is still suffering from the heavy blow, but he has made significant improvement. He has returned to his regular habits, at least, and thus he has returned to his normal weight and color. He has been speaking in much softer, kinder tones than he ever has, and he reminds me constantly of his love for me.

He has been spending much more time with me of late as well, accompanying me almost every time I leave the house. It is almost as if he is simultaneously trying to protect me from some unseen force and also trying to prevent himself from being alone. It is as if he fears that the moment we are separated for any significant amount of time, some calamity will strike. This is a significant change from his behavior near the beginning of his mourning; back then it was as though he could not bear to look at me, as if somehow my very presence reminded him of his loss.

However, he runs a very successful practice now that he is not constantly being called away, and it takes up most of his time. He still tends to bury himself in his work on the days that his grief is too strong. And despite his constant supervision of me when he is home, he is still at his practice long enough every day not to know that I am hiding something from him.

My health has been challenged recently by this last, harsh winter of ours, and I do not know whether I should tell him. I have been able to suppress my coughing whilst in his presence, for to me it would seem strangely selfish to burden him with worry of me while he is so deep within his own depression. I am supposed to be his stability, his rock. I cannot falter now. Besides, I am sure that this illness shall pass soon enough. I am sure that I am in no real danger.

* * *

John published his account of Sherlock Holmes's death last week. I wish he had not forced himself to do so. I caused him much too much pain. He did not go to work in the entire time he was writing, and his habits began to resemble those of his first weeks of mourning. Why has he forced himself to relieve the most painful event he shall likely ever have to experience? I tried to convince him to leave his chronicles at the Adventure of the Naval Treaty, and at first he agreed. But then came those damn lying letters and John's hand was forced. He said that he owed it to his friend to commemorate his passing in an honorable way and to not allow Colonel James Moriarty to slander his memory; _I _said that he owed it to _himself _to leave Sherlock Holmes in the past and to move on with his life, slandered memory or not.

Needless to say, he did not appreciate my admittedly tactless and hurtful comment. We fell into a bitter argument until the strain on my diaphragm was too great and I began coughing painfully. For a moment he returned to the kind, gentle doctor I married, putting one hand on my back and the other on my left shoulder. He asked how long these coughs had been ailing me, and I answered honestly. He was rightfully appalled at my long deception and immediately sent me away to bed with the assistance of a maid, strain and worry evident on his dear face. I believe that that is the moment when he locked himself away in his study to begin writing The Final Problem.

The magazine with his last story is on my lap as I lay in my bed. John has not allowed me to leave this sickbed more than half a dozen times, so reading is all I can do besides writing in this diary. I must admit I am grateful for his restriction. My strength has fled me along with my health, and it was an ordeal to keep up my charade of wellness for him. Since the publishing of his final account, John's mood has improved a little, at least enough for him to be a caring and attentive doctor to me. Again he is constantly reminding me that he loves me, as if I could ever forget.

He is such a kind man, my husband, even though his heart has been irreparably broken. I believe he realizes how distressed his grief has made me and regrets neglecting our marital happiness as he has. I do not blame him, though, not for a moment. I only wish that I had been able to soothe 'the void in his life that the lapse of two years has done little to fill'.

* * *

This disease of mine has been long and drawn-out, but I believe it is now coming to an end. I believe this shall be the final account I shall ever record in this diary of mine, and even now it is not my own hand that writes these words. I am dictating this entry to my dear maid, Cathy, who has been kind enough to be my hands and record my final thoughts while I still have the strength to speak them, as I have already lost the strength to hold a pen and pad for very long.

I am dying. There is no disputing this fact, no denying or bargaining. Even if I could not feel it in my body, I can see it in my John's eyes. My poor, dear John. He has fallen into a fitful sleep in the chair beside my sickbed and I must speak quietly so as not to wake him. He has not slept soundly since my illness has reached this final stage. I believe he blames himself for my impeding death, just as he blames himself for his friend Sherlock Holmes's. I wish he would not. More than anything else, I wish he would not blame himself.

I do not find myself too upset about my fate, at least not for my own sake. Even with the loss of my parents at a young age and the last two years of unhappiness, I am content with how my life has ended up. I still love John as much as I ever have, and this love as well as the fact that it is still reciprocated preserves my happiness for myself. Besides, I am soon to see my dear father again at the Gates of Heaven, so how can I rightfully complain?

Now it is only for John, whom I shall leave completely alone, that I mourn my own passing. I fear that I shall destroy him even more thoroughly by making him a widower. I wish I could save him this extra, unnecessary pain.

But if this is truly my final day on Earth, then I shall attempt to make it an easy one for my husband. I shall tell him that I have never in my life resented his deep love for his lost friend, and I shall ask him not to mourn me too long. This may seem an impossible request, but it is the only one I have ever desired to make of him. I need him to know that his happiness is the only thing in the world that matters at all to me right now and that I refuse to be the reason that he does not feel it again in a very long time. He _needs _to know these things. He needs to be happy and to live well after I no longer have the ability to do either. He needs to know how much I love him, and for the sake of this love he needs to be able to move on after my death in the way that he has never been able to move on after Mr. Holmes's. He deserves to move on. Besides, I want my memory to be a happy one.

I shall tell him all this once he awakens. But for now I shall let him have his rest, and I shall take my pen and pad from Cathy to sign for the last time:

_Mary Watson_

* * *

_**(A/N)**_

**_AAAAANGSSST!!!_**

**_Ahem._**

**_Finally got through "The Final Problem" and "The Empty House" this weekend. The first made me pretty depressed and it was then that I wrote the bulk of this chapter._**

**_I was talking to my boyfriend about slash this weeked (how cool is it that my boyfriend talks about SLASH with me?!!) and I brought up those two stories as examples. I pretty much told him that as far as SH-fandom was concerned, Watson was cutting himself for the three years that he thought Holmes was dead. And my bf's like "Wait, didn't he have a wife?" and I said, "Yeah, but I'm pretty sure she was cutting herself because Watson was cutting himself. Plus she died." And the bf's life, "Well I guess Watson's cutting himself even more after that." And I said, "Not really. He only mentions it one time in the next story, and that's just because Holmes brought it up. I think Mary told him off about being so angsty or something."_**

**_So yeah._**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


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